Deep Red Reminders
by ChastityHope13
Summary: Darrell Shifty Powers has the best shot in all of Easy Company, he's been perfecting it all his life in the woods of Virginia, now in the war, the rifle is the same, but the target has changed. These are Shifty's thoughts and feeling towards this new target, and they are all crimson red...


**A/N – Hello! This is just a one shot kinda word/thought drabble I decided to write late at night…Nothing super special or anything. But at the same time, YES special because it's about Shifty…and we all love Shifty…who by the way, I just found out, passed away in 2009...TEARS ENSUE…anyways, read on.. Reviews appreciated greatly!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. The thoughts and feeling portrayed in this story are fictionalized and no disrespect was meant to the lovely Darrell Powers or Easy Company.**

_**Crimson Red **_

It was different now, the rifle in my hands felt somehow much heavier. Rather burdensome. I no longer wished to carry it around, to lift it to my shoulders, to shoot it.

Back in Clincho Virginia my father would take me out to the woods, teach me how to shoot, I was young, happy to learn. These were reveries I longed to feel again, I search for them in the depths of my mind, in my heart. I still remember the staggering sense of accomplishment when finally, my long apprehensive hours spent in the woods paid off, when I finally hit that doe. A clean, precise shot! When I beheld the glint of pride in my fathers weary eyes. As a young boy, these where the things a youthful mind where set upon achieving. Recognition, gratification. That glint, that little piece of pride in me, compelled me forward. I felt little for whatever happened to come in contact with the fire from my gun, it was a game, I was good at it, and I enjoyed it. I played well and rarely did I loose. Often times the boys from class would ask me to tag along after school, they spent their time chasing the young girls they were sweet on around the school yard, playing with jacks on the sidewalk, and later of course, the first smoke the first beer, first high. That wasn't my thing; I never told them much about the time spent with my old man, especially not the time I spent in complete solitude. Spending every day, sitting by myself in the woods behind my house, hunting, most likely classified me as anti-social, awkward, and probably a little psychotic. Nothing changed for me as the years went by, just me and my old man, me and the wind in the trees, the silence and peace of Gods natural gifts. I wasn't afraid of God here. Things where alright. The same place of calm, of focus, relishing in the enjoyment of my young avocation. A gun and its purpose didn't scare me.

But, these things may change.

I was aware of this as the world around me, and the goodness I once saw in it began to erode. Though much had stayed the same for myself, I was still at home, I graduated high school, I wasn't sure what I wanted with my life just yet, until 1941. America, the Allies joined in the war effort. As a young 20 year old, my place in society and my community, not to mention the entire country, was chosen for me. Public degradation was the fate of a young man not willing to fight for his country. Even my father, who would be alone if I left, tried to make hints here and there, looking anywhere but into my eyes as he spoke quietly. It was painful to watch a man once full of pride and contentment leer into anxiety and brokenness. I wanted to see that glint of pride again. So I enlisted of course. As any young, eager to prove himself man would.

But, here I am, two years later, with a rifle I my hand that hasn't felt the same since Normandy, since home. It fits in the crook of my neck just a little different; my palms are sticky whenever I raise it up to shoot. After fire has been exchanged and the night fills with a dead silence, my chest tightens and I wish I could breathe but I can't. I just can't. The sense of Pride I receive comes in the same abundance it once had in the Virginia woods, just the same, pats on the back. Comments like "Shifty's got the best shot in the company!" or "you don't want to be a Kraut when Shifty's around". Yes, this was a result of my wholesome time spent hunting. At Toccoa and throughout training; I was always one step ahead of the other men in rifle training. So this, being in the war, should've been easy. As easy as it always had been before. Unfortunately.

Same gun…targets changed.

And in these moments when I m crouched in my foxhole after a really, really long day that seemed almost infinite. My mind wanders sleepily back to childhood, to home. The trees, the grass, the wind, even the snow. Most of all,

The _Crimson Red_ leaves.

And then my breathe catches in my chest, for there is _crimson red_ here as well, except its not painted on leaves, it lies on the ground, forming little pools, its stained to your jacket, hardened under your fingernails. It wasn't part of God's gift. Not part of this earthly experience, to see this liquid red.

Was not meant to be seen.

This, this _Crimson Red_ is the blood of another man, blood drawn from another life. At the expense of a soul, a spirit.

It was different when I saw the blood of a squirrel or a buck or doe. I don't know why, but it was. I can't stand to shoot this gun any longer. I don't want to take the life of that man on the other side of the dike, his uniform is different than mine; I have been told he's done terrible things, full of contemptible, vile hatred. He is a monster. Later on I see it at Landsberg, in the faces of the Jewish people; I see it in the eyes of my fallen comrades.

But don't make me spill the _Crimson Red_ blood of another man.

This man breathes the air I helplessly choke on. If I prayed to God, what would he say, would he commend me like the other soldiers, tell me he's proud, tell me I am worthy and have done well.

No, this cant be, not my God, he couldn't be proud of something so senseless, hopeless, loveless. A lost cause, to stop the heart of a living, breathing, person.

When I get home, if I get home, what words will fall from my lips, describing this place, and how the things I once youthfully loved, now frighten me. I can no longer kill with ease, because the target has changed. At night, in a forest much like the ones back home, lit up with the reflection of the moon on the soft velvety snow, I sit and wait, wait for the next time I must raise that loathsome rifle, and in this time of waiting and shivering, I often wonder about the next time I will see _crimson red_. Back home, when the leaves begin to change, and I marvel at all Gods wonder, I will never look at those crimson red leaves with the same awe-inspired eyes. That soft smile won't pull at the corners of my mouth.

I will never hold a rifle again. I refuse to see life through a barrel, and then thoughtlessly end it.

For there is _crimson red_ I still feel slippery between my fingers, spurting in the night. Seeping from the ventricles of the once living, and now dead.

Those leaves are a crimson red reminder of a game I no longer wish to play.

A/N – Ok, if you've gotten this far, thank you for reading! This was a rather random piece of writing, but anyways, PLEASE review … I love reviews as anyone would and I really appreciate them! Xo


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